I wake that sunny Saturday morning, stretching and rolling over to greet my husband, only to find myself staring at a tiny, decapitated mouse head on his pillow.
“TC!” I shout, scrambling out of bed. “What the hell is this?”
There’s no sign of the damned cat. Damned matagot, I should say. What’s a matagot? I have no idea, despite living in a town founded by fae beings, being married to a half-fae guy, and having fae and Wild Hunt blood myself. Ask any of those fae about TC, and all I get is a dismissive “He’s a matagot,” as if that explains everything. It explains nothing.
Naturally, I’ve tried to look it up, and what I get is that a matagot is a magical cat of French legend, one that supposedly gives its owner a piece of gold each day.
There is no gold.
If TC could talk, I’m sure he’d say I haven’t earned it, despite adopting him from the streets, spoiling him rotten, and saving his life at least once. Maybe he’s waiting for a real name, something better than The Cat.
When I shout, footsteps thump up the stairs; Gabriel taking them two at a time. By the time he arrives, though, he’s slowed to a stride, as if he just happened to need something up here and didn’t come running when I yelped.
“Olivia?”
He appears in the doorway. He fills that doorway. Tall, broad shouldered, carrying a few extra pounds around his middle, but he wears it well. He wears his impassive “I am not concerned” look equally well.
I wave at the mouse head on his pillow. “We’re feeding him, right? Kibble. Chicken. Tuna. Everything a kitty could want?”
Gabriel wordlessly tugs a tissue from the bedside box, picks up the mouse head and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, the toilet flushes. Then he returns with a fresh pillowcase, replaces the mouse-head-throne one and drops it into the hamper. Only after that’s done does he aim a disapproving stare at TC, who has strolled in behind him.
“You’re up early,” I say as I swing my legs out of bed.
Gabriel leans over to kiss the top of my head. “I’m making breakfast before I leave.”
“Leave?” I reach for my phone. “It’s Saturday, right?”
“It is, but I received a call just before five. An old client with a new case.”
“Case?” I perk up, making the corners of his mouth twitch in the faintest smile.
“Possibly,” he says. “I’m meeting him at the office, where I’ll determine whether I wish to take his case.”
“Ah. A bit of ethical gray in this one?”
His brows rise.
“Sorry,” I say. “Let me rephrase. A bit too much ethical gray in this one?”
“With this particular client, I suspect there’s very little white mixed into the black… and not enough compensation to overlook it.”
According to a recent article, Gabriel is Chicago’s most infamous defense attorney under the age of thirty-five. He spent a week with that article on his desk, attempting to incinerate it with his irritation. It was the “under thirty-five” qualifier that annoyed him. I assured him that someday, he’ll be the most infamous defense attorney of any age. Marriage is all about supporting your partner’s dreams.
I suppose I should say that I never imagined myself ending up with a guy who has Gabriel’s wayward moral compass. That’d be bullshit. I’m a former socialite. I come from the sort of moneyed world that thrives on ethical gray—they’re just better at whitewashing over it.
I prefer this. Gabriel is honest about what he does, and he sets limits and stays within them, no matter how much he’s offered. Being half fae, he doesn’t see right and wrong the way humans do, but that’s an excuse he’d never use. This is who he is, and I’m fine with it, because I’ve discovered it’s who I am, too.
We eat breakfast on the back deck, enjoying the cool spring morning and watching the sun rise over the fence. Then I play 1950’s housewife and walk my darling hubby to the front door, kissing his cheek as I hand him his coffee before leaning against the jamb in my silk robe while his Jag purrs from the driveway.
It’s a good life. A really good life. The only part I’d change is the damned cat meowing at my feet despite the fact I gave him half my bacon. When he swipes at my bare ankle, I jump.
“Ingrate,” I mutter. “Next time, I’m eating it all.”
TC stares up at me. Then he pulls my gaze to a bird perched on the oak tree. A single magpie. The hairs on my neck prickle.
One for sorrow.
I snap a shot with my phone. When I check, I have a photo of the oak branch…and no sign of the bird I still see perched there.
An omen.
I hit the phone app and tap the top number. It goes straight to Gabriel’s voice mail, as it should, so he’s not answering his phone while driving. Ha! No, going to voice mail means he’s on a call, probably telling the client he’s on his way.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say. “When you were leaving, there was a magpie on the oak out front. One magpie, which wasn’t in a photo I took, and you know what that means. Just be careful, okay? Give me a shout when you get this.”
I end the call and stand on the porch, watching the magpie that exists only in my mind.
Gabriel and I don’t get what you’d call “gifts” from our fae blood. No invisibility or shape-shifting or magical powers. He has a talent for manipulation, which could come from his bòcan father…or it could just be Gabriel. I have the ability to see omens. Does that include any kind of translation guide? Nope. It’s like a warning light on my car, telling me something is wrong without providing an iota of diagnostic information.
TC meows.
“I know, I know,” I mutter. “Something’s wrong, and it has to do with Gabriel.”
I try his number again. Still voice mail. My heart stutters, and I flip to the locator app, with visions of the Jag crashed in a smoking heap, Gabriel trapped inside. It’s happened before. Okay, I was driving, but a fae caused the crash, in my defense.
No, there’s his little tracking dot zooming out of Cainsville.
I know where he’s going, and while I can’t catch up with him—the man drives as if he’s single-handedly responsible for funding the police charity ball—I can meet him at the office. That’s better than sitting at home, fretting.
I go inside and head upstairs. In our room, I toss my robe onto the chair, turn toward the bed—
There’s another mouse head on Gabriel’s pillow.
“TC!” I bellow.
A clatter sounds downstairs. A clatter that is not my little nine-pound kitty. Footsteps pound up the stairs.
I take my gun from the nightstand as someone runs down the hall. I have the gun poised, ready—
Gabriel rounds the corner. “What’s wrong?”
I lower the gun as I exhale. “You came back. Good.”
His dark brows rise. “Came back? I was downstairs making coffee, and I heard you shout.” His gaze moves to the pillow. “Ah, I don’t blame you for that.” He plucks out a tissue and picks up the head.
“Wait,” I say. “You already did that.”
“Did what?”
“I woke up and saw the head. You put it into the toilet and changed the pillowcase.”
He frowns. “No, I just came up now, and I was going to take this outside, but the toilet is a better idea.”
He takes it into the bathroom and flushes it down.
I move into the bathroom doorway. “We already did this, Gabriel. Then we had breakfast, and you left for the office.”
His brows knit. “But it’s Saturday.”
“You got a call.”
A moment’s more confusion. Then his brow smooths. “I believe I can solve this mystery. You woke up, saw the mouse head, fell back to sleep, and dreamed that I came up to dispose of it. Then you woke up and saw the head again. I have no intention of working today. I’m making breakfast and then spending the weekend with my lovely wife. Come down for coffee. There’s no need to dress.” His gaze lingers over my naked body. “You look fine just the way you are.”